Burning Up A Bible
by ImogenW
Summary: Two teen suicide attempts in a week is heard of. Two in one night? Less likely. For them to know each other? Even less. But when the blame of one lies on the other, it becomes a whole new story. TRIGGER WARNINGS: Suicide, self harm, depression, as well as mentions of most other psychiatric issues. PreKlaine, Kurtbastian multichapter
1. Chapter 1

**Yeah, so my previous Multi-chapters have always remained unfinished but I'm going to try with this, I swear. General trigger warning for most psychiatric things (Most will be set in a psych ward, so, you know), so be warned.**

I wish I'd been a teen, teen idle,

Wish I'd been a prom queen, fighting for the title

Instead of being sixteen and burning up a bible

Feeling super, super, super suicidal

The wasted years, the wasted youth

The pretty lies, the ugly truth

And the day has come where I have come where I have died

Only to find I've come alive

There's blood.

It drips, ebbs, flows until covers his eyes and his heart and his soul and fills every hole in his body. Every pore, every nook and cranny, until the blood is all that is. His skin and bones and _fat_ are eaten and forgotten by the seeming endless warmth; the relief and reprieve of the end.

There's silence.

He doesn't know what he expected. A group of little Lucifers, playing discordant violins and trumpets, following him down to a non-existent hell? There's just the ticking clock, the slowly growing gravity as his bed pulls him down, the empty bottles of Advil and Absolut lying at the beneath the bedside table and the note on the pillow.

He stings.

His wrists and arms and ankles all sting and throb. His thighs and hips and stomach burn. He shouldn't be feeling this. He shouldn't be _feeling_. This pain was supposed to be gone. Finished. Done. He wasn't supposed to hurt anymore.

'Hold on, buddy.' There's pressure on his chest, a series of bumps until the monotonous beeping and the muffled sobs become two more notches on his list.

He aches.

His bones and stomach and head all pound subtly, until he feels like a marching band. His mouth is fluffy, his bones are stiff. His knuckles click as he stretches, the blood flowing back into his limbs as he takes a deep breath.

'Sebastian?' a man asks in the distance. _No, no, no._ He isn't supposed to be breathing.

'Take me back,' he demands, the words coming out in small mumbles, his tongue curling on the vowels. Seeing the man's blank stare, he repeats. 'Take me _back!' _

'Sebastian, please-'

'Take me _back!_'

He throws one punch, two, until he feels the pressures in his elbows and wrists pull back with a short snap of pain. He sees his mother in the corner, sobbing into a handkerchief, piece of paper in hand.

'_Maman_!' he calls, pulling the chords and gauges off his body, aching for her touch. There's a sharp pain in his back as his vision clouds and he falls to his knees.

'Level three,' the man says. 'Keep him stable for a few days, then bring him down to two. Mrs Smythe, if you would.' And the room is quiet, four strong hands pulling him back onto the bed.

_Oh, Seb, _the voice says. _You always have to make a spectacle._

'Kurt?'

'Hmmmmingresdad?' Kurt asks, raising his hand to brush away the hair in his eyes. Another hand latches onto his forearm, causing the stinging to return with a gasp.

'Sorry, Kurt, but you can't move that hand,' a man says. 'It's attached to a fair few things you don't want to go awry.' He smiles softly at Kurt. 'I'm Dr Newman. Now what did you say before?'

'How's my dad?' he slurs, trying to force the cotton feeling out of his mouth. 'Is he okay? Oh my god, did I-how's his heart?' he tries to raise his head, but it's heavy, so heavy.

'You dad's fine, Kurt,' the man murmurs. 'It's actually you we're worried about. Care to tell me what happened?' Kurt glanced down at the bandages on both arms, moves his legs and feels the gauze running down both thighs, right down to his ankles.

'You're the doctor,' he replies softly. 'Shouldn't you be telling me that?' Dr Newman chuckles once.

'I can tell the result, not necessarily what put you there,' he says, leaning against the bed frame. Tall, blonde and soft, his voice weaves its ways into Kurt, pulling at the memories he tried to hard to block out.

'I guess…I guessed I slipped over,' he tries, biting the inside of his lips as the tidal waves behind his eyes build up. 'I'm clumsy, you know.' Dr Newman's face falls slightly.

'Kurt, we both know that's not true,' he says. 'It looks like you tried to kill yourself.' Kurt flinches. 'And it looks like it was a pretty decent try.' Kurt takes a deep breath.

'But not good enough,' he stutters. 'Never quite good enough.' Dr Newman looks down at the boy, flaked out on the bed with red tubes coming out of every orifice.

'Kurt, you're going to Adolescent's Psychiatrics for a while, you can see your dad there.' Kurt nods, playing with the end of one bandage. 'I hope you get better soon, Kurt; the world's a much better place when you paint in colour.' Kurt looks up briefly and smiles.

'It's a bit hard when you've already been painted.'

Dr Newman smiles softly again, nods and turns to the door. 'Take him to level two, get him a proper assessment, then maybe to level one if he's all clear tomorrow night,' he whispers to the two orderlies by the door. 'Try to avoid the other suicide.' He turns to look at Kurt, who pretends to be fiddling with his bandage again. 'Two teens in one night? I don't get it.' He shakes his head.

'At least Kurt was quiet,' one orderly shrugs. 'That Sebastian kid gave John a black eye, apparently.' Kurt freezes.

Then he relaxes. Why would perfect, snarky, 'I wanted your boyfriend so I had him' Sebastian kill himself?

But there's an uneasy feeling in his stomach as he remembers the looks on the Meerkat's face when Kurt was yelling at him-screaming-, and Kurt feels sick again.

But there's no way. None at all, right?

I wish I'd been a teen, teen idle,

Wish I'd been a prom queen, fighting for the title

Instead of being sixteen and burning up a bible

Feeling super, super, super suicidal


	2. Fighting For A Title

**A/N so it's short, but I'll update more regularly if they're short than if I feel the need to write 2000 word updates on writers block. atm it's pretty slow but it'll pick up when we start doing interesting things :)**

The first thing Kurt notices about the room is how white it is. It glares at him, screams, needling through his eyelids until his eyes feel like they're about to burn.

'Kiddo?' Burt's voice breaks through the white, pulling Kurt from his burning. 'Kurt, buddy?'

He takes a deep breath.

'Hi, dad.'

'Sebastian?' He shuts his eyes to the noise. He can hear the pain in his _maman_'s voice, pulling at the strings he tried so hard to cut. 'Sebastian, I know you're awake.' A sigh. 'Please, _mon amour_.' A dry sob. '_Mon petit suricate_, _s'il tu plais_.' He opens his lids, smiling softly at the woman hovering over him.

'Hey, mum.'

'I'm so sorry,' Kurt starts, struggling to breath against the hug enveloping him. 'I'm so, so sorry.' Burt just pulls tighter, sob racking both bodies. 'I just… I'm sorry.' They stay like that for minutes, hours, until another doctor comes through the doors, clipboard in hand.

'Mr Hummel, Kurt,' he nods to the pair as they separate, wiping eyes and noses. 'I'm Dr Selios, resident adolescent psychiatrist for Westerville Royal. How are we feeling?' Kurt takes a staggered breath.

'Stingy,' he says, staring back at the bandages. 'My legs really hurt and my nose feels heavy.' Dr Selios nods, writes something on his clipboard.

'Mr Hummel, if you wouldn't mind stepping out for a few minutes,' he asks, opening the door. 'I'm sure you're hungry, it's been a hard few hours.' Burt hesitates, then nods, closing the door with a small wave. Kurt waves back sadly. 'I thought it would be easier to talk honestly without your dad around.' Kurt nods, is silent. Dr Selios takes a deep breath. 'So, what was going through your mind?'

'When?' Kurt snorts. 'Before I decided to carve up my legs and stomach and arms until they looked like a meat platter?' The greying mad just nods, a small touch of pity in his eyes. 'Angry, I guess. Hurt. Numb. Tired,' he sighs. 'Just really, really tired.' Dr Selios nods, writes down a few notes.

'Is this the first time you've ever hurt yourself?' he asks, pushing his glasses back up to the bridge in his nose.

One beat

Two.

'No,' Kurt whispers in a small voice. 'No.' Dr Selios nods again.

'Will you do it again?'

'Probably.'

'Sebastian, mon petit suricate, j'taime,' his mother is crying. 'Tu le sais, c'est vrais?' Sebastian nods into her shoulder, trying to spit the hair out of his mouth.

'Maman, I know,' he murmurs, holding tears behind his lids. He would not cry, not here. 'I know, I'm sorry.' His mother sobs.

'Pouquoi?' she heaves. 'Why would you want to leave so badly?'

He doesn't reply.

'Mrs Smythe?' a middle aged woman enters, dark hair in a tight bun. Sebastian looks up as his mother steps back.

'Call me Isabelle,' she smiles softly, holding out her hand. It's shaking.

'I'm Dr Fielding,' she takes Isabelle's hand, squeezes it, then lets it go, walking over to the bed. 'Sebastian, how are you feeling?'

'Like I drank an entire bottle of Absinthe,' he replies drily. 'I need some water, my head hurts, I'm going to throw-' Dr Fielding pushes a bucket under Sebastian's mouth as he retches.

'That'll be the pills and vodka you took,' she purses her lips. 'Feel like talking about what was going through your mind?' Sebastian lies back in the pillows, shuts his eyes.

'Probably about how hot the guys in Hell could be,' he smirks. Dr Fielding sighs.

'You're in the Westerville Royal Psychiatrics,' she says, clipping a board to the end of the bed. 'Level four after that stunt you pulled in Emergency. You'd better start being serious or you'll never leave.'

***j'taime, mon petit suricate, Tu le sais, c'est vrais-I love you, my little meerkat, you know that, right?**

**Pourquoi-Why?**


End file.
